


Going to Ground

by storm_of_sharp_things



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: A bit of bespoke tweed porn, A little gun porn, Arthur's Regency Romance novel, Blue blood Eames, Did you know that shooting waistcoats were a thing?, Dreamhusbands, Good Whiskey, Good bourbon, M/M, Mentions of hunting (NOT trophy), No Actual Hunting, Royalty, Sweetness and Fluff, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: “It occurs to me that it’s autumn and the estate in New Forest sounds pretty damn appealing right now, doesn’t it?”In response to a prompt: A soft and romantic cabin in the woods fic on a hunting trip in fall/winter a domestic piece between jobs in the English countryside. I'm a sucker for Royal/Blue Blood Eames, and I'm hoping for an excuse for soft boys in tweed with guns and good scotch or irish whiskey.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81
Collections: Inception Prompts





	Going to Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BigDaddyBane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigDaddyBane/gifts).



“Darling,” Eames panted as they ducked into the alley, “I think we need to get away for a little while.”

Arthur huffed a laugh and shoved a window open, giving Eames a boost inside and then swinging up himself. “Why? Just because we’ve worked four jobs in a row, or because this last one has taken two months longer than it should have, or because our asshole extractor landed us in the middle of a turf war between drug lords that didn’t even have anything to do with the original job?”

“You’ve always had such a succinct way about you, pet. It occurs to me that it’s autumn and the estate in New Forest sounds pretty damn appealing right now, doesn’t it?” Eames led the way through the abandoned building, looking for an exit on the far side, while Arthur kept watch behind them, reloading the magazines for Eames’ Walther and tucking them into his pocket before attending to his own CZ. “Thanks, love,” Eames said absently as he swapped out for a full magazine.

“Isn’t your brother in residence there right now?” Arthur touched him on the shoulder and took the lead smoothly as they neared a loading dock, checking for any signs of ambush. “Clear,” he said and guided them back onto the street where pedestrian traffic was the thickest.

“No, he’s in the city right now. I was thinking we could just stop by the manor house briefly and pick up our tweeds before heading out to the cottage.”

Arthur spared him a glance while they walked briskly, looking for a taxi. “Our tweeds, hmm? So you’re thinking of hunting?”

“Darling,” Eames drawled. “As much as I love you with a semiautomatic pistol, watching you handle a long gun is...”

“Stop,” Arthur said, pained, as Eames waggled his eyebrows. “Just...don’t.” He flagged down an idling cab. “Al aeropuerto, por favor,” he said to the driver.

“You love my double entendres,” Eames smirked.

Arthur gave him a sidelong look. “You make this claim in the face of all evidence to the contrary? No, you dick, I love you _despite_ your double entendres. And your puns. Your puns are almost enough to tip the balance the wrong way.”

“Arthur,” Eames said fondly. “Let’s take a holiday.”

Arthur blew out a breath and stared at the passing city for a moment through the cab windows. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

When they finally landed at Heathrow after endless flight delays, it was to a crisp and sunny afternoon, cool and bright and refreshing, a stunning contrast to the muggy humidity of Colombia.

“Pleasantly free of bullets, too,” Arthur said sarcastically when Eames remarked on the weather.

Eames gave him a long look, taking in the brittle weariness, and tugged him close to kiss the corner of his jaw. “I think I’m tired, love, what if we spend the night in a nice quiet hotel before heading to the estate?”

Arthur sighed and tucked his face into Eames’ throat, wrapping his arms loosely around him. “Stop indulging me when I’m cranky, it doesn’t teach me any better behavior.”

“Because I get no benefit at all from indulging you,” Eames smirked, hand sliding up to cup the back of Arthur’s head, his thumb petting the tender bare skin behind Arthur’s ear.

Arthur shivered lightly and then relaxed into his embrace as if they weren’t standing in front of one of the busiest airports in the world. Eames took a moment to indulge in a wash of self-satisfaction.

“You’re radiating smugness,” Arthur muttered, not lifting his face, but Eames could feel the curve of his smile.

“Petal, are you hiding your dimples from me? Surely you know better than that by now.”

Arthur nipped him and straightened, unsuccessfully trying to assemble a glower. Eames held his face and dropped a light kiss against each dimple, smiling as Arthur rolled his eyes.

“PDAs, Mr Eames. You know my policy on PDAs.”

“We’re on my home soil now, love. By rights, you should be calling me ‘my lord.’”

“Oh, has British bacon acquired wings? I don’t remember seeing that cross the news yet.”

Eames grinned at him, feeling almost unbearably content. “Oh look, there’s our driver. You can nap in the car on the way, pet. I’ll let the butler know to have our bags packed by the time we get there.”

“Jesus. I will never get used to the fact that you have a driver and a butler. And footmen. And maids.”

“So it’s not the little things like the titles, the country estate with the manor house, the house in Mayfair, the wealth, or the proximity to the throne that bother you. It’s the fact that we employ people that trips you right up.”

“What was it your brother called you the last time we saw him? An insufferable knob, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t disparage my knob, poppet, it’s one of the things you love about me. Oh hello, Hammersmith.” Eames smiled at their driver, an ancient but incredibly sharp man whom Arthur had once charmingly decided had driven a horse-drawn carriage in Victorian times. “We’re going straight to the estate, thank you, but with none of your madcap driving now — my darling is desperately in need of a nap and we can’t have you swerving around slow drivers and shouting obscenities out the window today.”

Hammersmith flashed him a dry look from under his shaggy white eyebrows as he touched his cap. “Right you are, my lord, staid and plodding it’ll be then. Welcome back to England, Mr Arthur. Sad as it is that you haven’t come to your senses yet about the young master here, it’s a delight to see you again.”

Arthur smiled. “It’s a pleasure to be here, thank you. Shall I knock him out before my nap?”

“Oh no, we’re all well used to his ramblings by now, thank you for the thought.”

Eames sniffed. “Familiarity, Arthur. It’s the downside of having family servants.”

Hammersmith snorted. “Do get in the car, you great selfish prat, so your beloved can fall asleep in a horizontal position.”

Eames grinned as Arthur went pink about the ears at the description and Hammersmith winked as he shut the door on them.

Arthur did fall asleep on the way, curled along the seat, cheek on Eames’ thigh. He’d done a stretch of short nights near the end of the job, and Eames could see the shadows under his eyes as he slowly and gently stroked his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Eames was tired himself, but the pull of being home was too strong, and his gaze kept returning to the countryside through which they were driving.

Eames would die of boredom if he were forced to stay, but it was and always would be home, and he was glad to return for a visit.

Arthur woke as they turned onto the long gravel drive that led to the manor house, brushing a kiss over Eames’s knee before pushing himself up to sit.

He smoothed his hands over his suit, making a face. “It’ll be a delight to face your perfect butler so rumpled,” he said ruefully.

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Falsworth knows you have exquisite taste and would never judge you.” Arthur gave him a skeptical look. “Out loud,” Eames amended and attempted to finger-comb his hair into place.

Falsworth was waiting for them on the front steps of the manor with his hands tucked into the small of his back, a tall elderly man in a flawless suit that gave them a deeply dubious down-and-up look as they emerged from the car.

“Falsworth!” Eames called out cheerfully. “How are you, old man?”

The butler arched an eyebrow and bowed slightly. “Welcome back to Mossley House, Master Bertie.”

Eames winced. “Even Lord Albert would be better, if you don’t mind.”

“Forgive me, Master Bertie, as an old man I can’t seem to keep that straight in my failing memory,” he said calmly. “Mr Arthur, welcome back as well.”

“Thank you, Falsworth, that’s most kind.”

“My lord, your bags are indeed packed and the footmen are bringing them out now. So there’s no need for you to step inside and risk mussing anything up.”

“Listen, Falsworth, I believe you’re forgetting whose manor this actually is,” Eames said with a hint of mock outrage.

“Mmm, no, my lord, I am perfectly aware that it belongs to your brother.” The butler’s mouth curved a little with amusement.

“Bah! Let this be a lesson, Arthur — never keep an old family retainer who’s been around since before you were born. They never let you forget it.”

Falsworth nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure it will slip my mind when I no longer remember changing your filthy nappies.”

Arthur looked away, fiercely suppressing a snicker, and Eames elbowed him. “Not helping,” he hissed.

“And here are your bags now, Master Bertie.” Falsworth gestured the footmen to the boot of the car and nodded to Eames and Arthur. “Good day, gentlemen, and good hunting.” He stepped back inside the manor and closed the front door.

“‘Good day,’ the tall prat says, as if he were the master of the house and we were wandering salesmen knocking on the door!” Eames huffed a laugh, grinning at Hammersmith when the driver’s amused eyes met his in the rear view mirror.

“I remember you and Master Gordie referring to him as Falty Towers, whispering it in terror lest he hear you.”

Eames laughed outright. “Too bloody right we whispered! If he’d overheard, it would’ve been straight out to the gardener, to help him turn over the compost heap.” Arthur shook his head with a smile and Eames pointed a finger at him warningly. “You’ve never seen the size of that damn compost heap. You could’ve hidden a horse in there.”

“Don’t mind me,” Arthur said, holding up his hands. “I’m just making notes for my ongoing Regency Romance novel.”

“Oooo, will it be trashy?” Eames waggled his eyebrows. “Get it? Trashy? Compost?”

“Yes, Eames, it will be titled “Love In The Time Of Thermophilic Decomposition” and will feature the true and forbidden passion burgeoning between an aristocratic rogue and the compost heap keeper, who happens to be a prince hiding from an arranged marriage.”

Eames’ jaw dropped. “Buggering hell, Arthur, I’d read that.”

Hammersmith snorted. “So would I.”

The hunting ‘cottage’ was actually a house built of stone, comprised of a couple of cozy bedrooms, a massive bathroom with an open shower and a clawfoot tub big enough for two people, a tiny and efficient kitchen, a large living area with several seating groups and a huge antique wooden table and chairs, and a mudroom with space enough for several hunters to peel out of their wet kit at the same time.

The interior was done in warm wood and rich dark jewel tones, with thick rugs over the massive flagstones, overstuffed and well-worn leather furniture, and dozens of throws and blankets and furs tossed everywhere. The rooms were drenched in sunlight during the day when the heavy draperies were drawn back from the wide windows, and lit with the warmth of lamps and firelight in the evening. There were fireplaces in every room but the kitchen, where the big gas range didn’t need any help heating the small space.

Two footmen and a maid met them at the door and absconded with their bags. Eames knew they would unpack and sort everything and then leave with Hammersmith. The maid would sneak back in when he and Arthur left the cottage, to tidy things and replenish anything needed, but would be otherwise try to be unseen. The staff knew Arthur, and his poor darling hadn’t grown up around a constant servant presence.

Arthur dropped onto one of the sofas near the small fire crackling in the fireplace, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. Eames sat beside him and Arthur tilted to lean against him, sighing.

“Safe,” Eames murmured into his hair.

Arthur’s mouth turned up at the corners and he tangled their fingers together. Eames watched the evening light fade from the sky between the trees and heard Arthur’s breathing deepen as he slid into sleep. The maid tiptoed into the room and then into the kitchen, and Eames barely heard her as she moved around in there. She emerged with a big bowl of some sort of stew and thick rounds of crusty bread and cloth napkins, and set everything silently on the coffee table in front of them with a smile and a wink.

The older footman brought over a half-full bottle of Teeling Vintage Reserve, Eames’ favorite Irish single-malt whiskey, and handed him a generous neat pour in a one of the family’s beautiful Waterford crystal glasses. Eames took an appreciative sip, feeling the last of the day’s tension slip away.

The footman also set down a bottle of Woodford Reserve Double Oaked and an empty glass for Arthur. Eames had been delighted with their staff when Arthur’s favorite bourbon had begun to show up on their visits.

The three left with a jaunty wave from the younger footman and Eames spent a while sipping his whiskey, rolling it around on his tongue and inhaling delicately through it to sort out the flavours before swallowing.

“I can smell the fruit and the wood notes from here,” Arthur whispered against his shoulder. Eames turned and cupped Arthur’s neck, laying his open mouth against Arthur’s in invitation. Arthur inhaled slowly and then touched his tongue to Eames’ lips, making teasing little flicks before sliding in to plunder the taste of the whiskey from inside. “That _is_ good,” he breathed, settling back.

Eames was inclined to whimper with how much he wanted Arthur to continue, but then the stew caught Arthur’s attention and his stomach growled, and Eames had to laugh. “So food first?” he teased.

Arthur smirked as he leaned forward to scoop up some of the stew with the fresh bread. “Venison,” he mumbled appreciatively, and took another big bite.

Eames grinned and they shared the bowl between them, scraping the sides clean with the last bits of bread. Arthur sighed and stretched back against the sofa, toeing his shoes off and curling up to rub contentedly at his belly. Eames poured him some bourbon, which Arthur took with a sound of pleased surprise and sipped at with quiet delight.

When he took the bowl back to the kitchen, Eames found a toffee apple set out in plain sight, so he sliced it and brought it out for dessert.

Arthur sat up for that and opened his mouth, a little drowsy and tousled, his eyes heavy-lidded, the bourbon glass cupped in his hands. Eames held his breath and touched a slice of apple to Arthur’s bottom lip, letting him bite off half with a little sound of pleasure. Arthur, sleepy and content and pliant, a little kittenish and playful, was a rare creature indeed, and it made Eames’ heart turn over. He fed Arthur half of the toffee apple slices, eating the other half himself in between Arthur’s bites, and let Arthur lick and suck his fingers after, Arthur’s eyes closed and his tongue moving lazily against the sensitive pads, scouring away the last of the sticky sweetness.

“God, Arthur,” Eames murmured, trousers uncomfortably tight around his erection.

Arthur blinked at him and twisted his mouth ruefully just before he yawned. “Sorry,” he said softly. “M’more tired than I thought.”

Eames shook his head fondly. “Come on, darling, up with you. Let’s get you ready for bed.” He pulled Arthur to his feet, smiling at the tiny complaining noise, and tugged him to the bedroom. Once there, Arthur stood docile as Eames stripped him of his layers, watching him with long lazy blinks. Eames pulled back the heavy duvet and sheets and guided him into the bed, taking a deep breath at the sight of him naked amid the linens.

Arthur smiled at him drowsily. “Why are you still wearing clothes? And hand me the lube, would you?” He yawned again but left his hand stretched out on the bed.

“Darling...” Eames wanted him desperately, was fully hard as he unfastened his trousers, but Arthur was almost completely soft, and half-asleep besides.

Arthur somehow managed an imperious flick of his fingers even as his arm lay relaxed against the duvet and Eames had to laugh. He fished the container out of the bedside table and put it in Arthur’s hand before returning to his clothing.

“Towel,” Arthur ordered through yet another yawn. Eames shook his head and went to fetch a hand towel from the bathroom.

When he came back into the bedroom with it, Arthur was sedately smoothing lubricant between his thighs and Eames heard a guttural sound escape his throat.

Arthur looked up with a slow smile and held a hand out to him. “Behind me,” he murmured, turning onto his side.

Eames tossed him the towel and divested himself of the rest of his clothing faster than he thought possible, sliding into the bed behind Arthur and fitting himself against the long lean lines of him. Arthur lifted his top leg slightly and nestled Eames’ cock between his slick thighs, then crossed his ankles and pressed his legs together.

Eames groaned at the stricture and opened his mouth against the back of Arthur’s shoulder as he thrust into the wet tightness. “Arthur,” he breathed, one hand curled under Arthur’s hip against the bed and the other holding Arthur’s thigh for leverage.

Arthur made a sleepy contented noise and pulled the towel in front of his legs as Eames’ rhythm grew faster and then Eames was coming between Arthur’s thighs with a rough cry. Arthur reached back and petted Eames’ hip with lazy circles of his fingers that drifted to a stop as he slipped into sleep.

Eames gently wiped them both dry with the towel and tossed it off the bed before pulling the covers over them and wrapping around Arthur, burying his face against the back of Arthur’s neck.

The logs in the fireplace shifted slightly and the light from the flames danced against the wooden ceiling, and Eames closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the fire and Arthur’s skin and letting the last lazy drifts of pleasure weigh him down into slumber.

He woke when the bed shifted. “It’s barely dawn,” he whined into the pillow as Arthur slid out of bed.

Arthur laughed and leaned over to kiss Eames’ temple. “Some pannage pigs woke me when they foraged past. But since we’re up...”

Eames growled, eyes closing. “ _You’re_ up. I’m not up.” He yelped as Arthur pulled the duvet back and slapped the back of his thigh. “Fuck! Fine, you tosser, I’m up!”

Arthur had already moved away and was drawing the edge of the drapery away from the window. “There’s a frost,” he said with pleasure. “Eames, get out of bed so we can take a walk in your beloved autumn English woods.” He headed for the bathroom and Eames heard the shower start.

Eames sighed and rolled out of bed, padding into the bathroom as Arthur stepped out from under the shower head and reached for a towel. He made a little sound of disappointment and Arthur laughed, shoving him towards the warm spray and continuing to dry off.

By the time Eames emerged, dry, from the bathroom, Arthur had his wardrobe open and was happily sorting through his bespoke tweed hunting suits. He pulled out a herringbone pattern in a rich rust-brown color and raised an eyebrow at Eames. “You’re going to look delectable in anything you choose, love, but that’s particularly appropriate for an autumn walk in the forest.”

Arthur dimpled at him. “I’ve laid out yours,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Eames picked up the coat, an estate-tweed — in this case, a green herringbone with a blue and gold check pattern laid over it. “Playing up our eyes today, are we?”

Arthur gave him a mischievous glance and began dressing himself, and Eames had to keep pausing to watch him. The white button-up shooting shirt with the blue check, the closely tailored rust-brown tweed breeks that buttoned at the knee, the thick woolen shooting socks that folded over at the top and were secured by tasseled garter ties... Eames growled under his breath at the sight and Arthur smiled to himself. He picked up the matching tweed waistcoat with the leather trim at the shoulders and slipped it on over the shirt, pausing to peruse his ties before deciding on a dark blue embroidered with tiny red antlers. He knotted the tie deftly and then buttoned the waistcoat, casting a glance at Eames as he picked up the matching coat. “Boots and caps will be in the mudroom, right?”

“Arthur...” Eames wanted to pin him onto the bed and strip all those perfectly fitted layers off him again.

Arthur grinned. “Finish dressing,” he said, and folded the coat over his arm before he strode out of the bedroom, knowing Eames’ eyes would be on the snug fit of the tailored breeks hugging his arse.

“Smug tart,” Eames muttered under his breath.

Arthur had started coffee in the kitchen and Eames was just putting the kettle on for tea when there was a quiet knock at the door.

“I saw someone was up and about, milord.” Jamis, the estate’s gamekeeper, stood on the doorstep, cap in hand, his apprentice hovering behind him shyly.

“Do come in, Jamis, you and your lad. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Thank you, but no, milord. We were just passing and thought I’d take the opportunity to ask. Were you planning on doing a spot of hunting today?” The gamekeeper glanced at their hunting tweeds but waited politely for an answer.

Arthur chuckled as Eames shrugged. “The thought occurred,” he allowed with a smile. “Are there specific hunting needs for the estate or the tenants?”

“Venison would be very welcome, milord — a red stag for preference, if you find one. We’ve one family looking for hide and another wants antlers for buttons. And the cook wants big bones for marrow and stock.”

“Then that’s what we’ll stalk today.” Eames glanced at Arthur, who looked pleased.

Jamis touched his brow with two fingers. “Then my lad and I’ll be off. If you’ll send me a text after, we can come pick up the carcass with the ATVs.”

“Perfect. Thank you for stopping by, Jamis.” He saw the two off and returned for his cup of tea only to find Arthur standing in front of the massive glass-fronted gun cabinet, eyeing the selection of rifles with anticipation.

Eames laughed and came to stand behind him, resting his hands on Arthur’s waist. “How about a Ruger No. 1?” he said, low and throaty, in Arthur’s ear.

Arthur made an interested sound. “A single-shot? I like your self-confidence, Mr It’s-Been-Awhile-Since-My-Sniper-Days.”

“Oi! I only missed that shot that one time because I had a concussion! _And_ cracked ribs.” Arthur snickered. “Besides, pet, I know you’re dying to show off. Go on, pull out the Rugers and let’s be off.”

Eames assembled a satchel with some drinks and sandwiches in the kitchen while Arthur put carry straps on the rifles and packed cartridges and a few tools into his own satchel.

“Eames, this is chambered for the .308 Winchester, right?” Arthur called from the living area.

“Yes, petal, I prefer less recoil for your fragile glass-like bones since we’re certainly not going to be shooting long distances in these woods.” Eames smirked down at the bread he was cutting.

“Fragile? Huh. Well, I guess that makes me too delicate and breakable to give you any handjobs, then, or even have sex. That’s a real pity.”

“I take it entirely back, darling, clearly I misspoke out of sleep deprivation.” Eames came back into the living area to tuck a lovely leather-wrapped silver flask into one of Arthur’s front vest pockets. “Some of your bourbon for you and some of my whiskey for me,” he said, patting his own pocket.

They stepped out into the crisp early morning, having put on their boots and matching tweed caps in the mudroom, each with a rifle and a satchel slung across their bodies.

“So it’s to be a walk-and-stalk?” Arthur asked with a relaxed smile, striding along between the half-bare autumn trees. Frost-rimed leaves crackled underfoot; they both knew the red deer would likely be further into the estate and so made no attempt at silence yet.

Eames reached out and took his hand, twining their fingers together. “Don’t be in a hurry, love. If we find a stag, that’s one thing, but right now I’m just out for a walk in the woods with the man of my dreams.”

Arthur gave him a wry look even as his ears and then his cheeks turned a little pink and Eames grinned and fished his fingers into the small buttoned pocket inside his own coat. “We’re on holiday and far from prying eyes. I think it’s safe, my beloved.” Eames pulled out their satin grey tungsten wedding bands and slid Arthur’s onto his finger.

Arthur bit his lip and took the other and slid it over Eames’ finger before bringing Eames’ hand to his mouth. “Husband,” he said softly.

Eames pulled him into an embrace, laughing when the rifles made it awkward. “Beloved husband.” He leaned back and grinned at Arthur. “Now let’s go shoot something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I may actually have to write a companion piece about Arthur's Regency Romance novel...


End file.
